♔ -- Making themes has always been incredibly relaxing and just soothing for me, however over the years there have been many incidents where people have blatantly taken my coding and tweaked/claimed it as their own. I will always keep my themes up and continue creating more so long as I'm on here, but please, please respect the credit where it is due!
♔ -- You may edit the layouts I've made in any way you would like. All I ask is that the credit stays right where I have put it, unless clearly shown elsewhere! To continue onto my themes, simply hit the 'forgive' link below!
♔ -- Please note: I no longer answer any theme questions. I will be posting a theme FAQ page which I will add to frequently, but until it is up please refrain from asking them. My apologies. Of course, if there are any serious issues feel free to contact me on my main blog.
I can hear a guitar muffled, but playing, somewhere around my block and oh god if I could explain the rush of those summer vibes I have just been flooded with it would comfort you to no end. Bare feet with slivers of freshly cut grass stuck here and there up to your ankles, your calves. Water droplets doubling and streaming and dripping and gliding down every curve of your body the slope of your nose lying on your eyelashes. Music playing in a fenced in yard with bodies of all sizes ages youths looks running this way and that. A grill giving off that charred smell of cook outs with smoke clouding and rising through the air only for the neighbors or any stander-by to envy. Fingers stained ruby from strawberries, corners of mouths moist with pale pink watermelon. Spitting seeds as far as the eye can see. Shrugging away from the wet dog that’s escaped throughout the yard. Bodies catapulting into pools, huggies squeezed and chugged dry fresh air fresh pollen all of the trees a striking and endless, endless green. Family and friends and hot pavement beneath your skipping feet, slipping in the hallways indoors. An open house. Nothing dying nothing wilting nothing withering as the night goes on. Tiki torches lit with the black blanket of the sky, a nippy breeze added in to the mix, video games and music clashing indoors while parents drink beer out. How fucking incredible. I need to be back home. I need to be back to all of this, a time where all of this was every morning, every evening, every day.
You know what I find comforting? Reflecting back on writings you haven’t given the time of day, the time of weeks, the time of months, the time of year maybe… and thinking now what company surrounds you newly in your life that would have comforted those lines and the spaces of those letters more than you could have ever comprehended where you sat and scratched those measly thoughts before. A fresh, warm, and blossoming company. So who is to come within the next time of day?
A restless night
My legs are twisted within my pale blue sheets, the heat of my laptop humming against my lap as I sit with eyes wide, aching to close though nowhere near able to. Bold crisp letters are listed on the screen before me, the color raging against my mind as my toes and fingers fiddle numbly. Sitting back with a huff, the headboard creates a dull imprint on the skin along my spine, limbs aching of discomfort and procrastination. My eyes scan the bulleted points for the fifth time this November evening, stress fully credited to this last week of my fall term. Inhaling is difficult, sleep is near impossible, a restless night it’s sure to be.
Everyone knows the incredibly grueling feel of hours of sincere restlessness. Eyes aching from a few chunked, dedicated to a Psychology paper. The next few minutes occupied with a few distressed breaths out, groggy blinks and an entirely elsewhere mind. Homework seems to be such an enormous understatement, more so a home deprived of sleep, though plentiful in slow, and mostly unenjoyably seconds being ticked through a skull while the clock seems to take it’s time reaching an hour reasonable to use the excuse of “It’s getting late, time to turn in.” Though with a handful of finals and tasks yet to be checked off, the bed seems dragged miles away.
The neon numbers flicker up in increments at my side, it’s only eleven o’clock. Checking my to do list, my to-stress about list, my unanticipated and worry producing chores, the satisfaction of a strike through across one dainty line seems minimal compared to the text that stretches nearly halfway down across this document. Brief moments are taken to crack my knuckles, one of my short but somewhat fulfilling split second breaks pursued while suffering through a six page research paper on a topic in which my mind has never grasped, nor desired to. My eyes square in on the top right hand corner of the current page before me, the blinking cursor intimidating with it’s constant ticks, still, page two is filled a quarter of the way through. My stomach churns, my fingers lifting up from the keys they so fervently have been fingering, slowly pulling my hands back while the debate of whether or not a bite of food between paragraphs could truly hurt.
The last sentence my fingers had keyed idled as the finish of this paper for merely an hour, during which time my mind was not wrapped in anything nearly worthwhile or serving as any bit of an excuse to delay. Page two still lingers upon another opened document strolling along side by side on another, both of which unfinished and mid thought. Yawns are continuously coaxed up from my now sinking body, the heat radiating from beneath my covers beckoning me towards it, to just crawl in. Yet five tasks remain for homework, stress-work, worry-work. Marie Antoinette is streaming from the television perched on the opposite side of my living room, the music is captivating, alluring, beautifully strung from chord to chord. My topic should rather have been on the comfort and soothing nature of a piece of music. That is, until the channel is indecisively scanned to a cartoon, a lifetime movie, a horror flick. The soundtrack of my thoughts are constantly swarming back and forth from genre to genre, and all that seems to exist is the bed cradling my weight, all my ears desire is a lullaby. Instead, all that speaks up are keys.
Page three exists, though it is blank spare ten words. And now thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, it’s not nearly midnight. My eyelids are tugging themselves shut, only for a few seconds my mind murmurs to itself. Those few carry on through the next, after all five minutes on an hour’s worth of a research paper seems fair enough. Two more tabs are opened within my browser, Bach’s Canon in D is streaming from the speakers on each side of this open pad, while a blog of tire-inspired words is filled with text that would rather easily fill the requirements my fingers and mind cannot reach. It’s just past midnight, and now my mind is mustering up desperately to me, searching frantically for some bargains. To give in now and finish as soon as my eyes awake the next morning, though knowingly it will not be until late afternoon. My fingers have officially decided, picking up the laptop burning against my skin and replacing it with the comforter tickling my legs.
Two thirteen in the morning is a time for sleep, they say nothing good happens past two o’clock. My still, though entirely unstill, sleepless body is a prime supportive detail of such a thought. My legs fidget, my arms try and find a proper way to grasp and hug the pillow molded to my side. My body seems to find a content position, and within a few minutes I feel myself being lulled into unconsciousness, though it likes to tease me. That psychology paper needed to be on the topic of treatments, not the list of causes, but three pages are already complete, tomorrow is another day. Restless thinking and a restless girl occupy this bed, through an entire twenty-four hour period my concentration managed a subtle two assignments out of seven, the last sentence of this will complete three. As anyone would agree, now is a time that is for sleep, now is when my body should give to the sheets while a sigh passes my lips, my mind drifting off to dreams beyond me. Three assignments out of seven, headlights illuminate my bedroom with every passing car, my stomach’s rumbling again. A few minutes’ worth of a snack could do no harm. This is the life of a restless night, a procrastinator’s fight.
I don’t think a single phrase is more mouthwatering than: “Tart, cold blackberries.”
Absence is meant to leave a wound. The pain of such does not signify that you weren’t meant to part ways, it does not signify that you are inescapably tied to one another. Eternity within a relationship lasts as far as the minds in love can see when put together. Wounds are only a passage of time. Why, under any circumstances, smother a love that has already been exhausted?
You hear that train dragging closer and it’s 11:03 am and it’s all you can do to stare transfixed back at the dishes rattling within their place. Teasing you just up against the edge this has all happened before. august 13th is just another Tuesday. They inch closer but it is forever just one shift too short beneath your feet. Your toes tap now and you’re playing God. You blink and wonder what would become if it were to spill. To be within such close company of your destruction yet you never once make it. You sit and you visualize that dull pearl set tip toeing around it’s suicide. It enrages you and you sit envious heated in awe. If it were to tip. Just enough. Splintering itself into your surroundings. Living scattered displaced sharp and untraceable piece by jagged piece. And then you turn away while your gut takes on a sickening clench. Your eyes close.
11:04 am. You know that feeling all too well.
Jeremy snatched the small wooden boy from between the gentle pads of her fingertips, cawing out a childish laugh as he held it just out of her desperate reach, swinging left and right toward open air with a pang in her stomach. “Give me my man back, Jeremy. Give it back!” Her please echoed throughout the entrance of the gate, skidded footsteps of gravel dancing forth and backward between the two sets of fighting limbs. Jeremy’s fingers mercilessly lifted each of the nut crackers arms up as if in some sort of beg unto the heavens. “You are trapped in your head, Sophie.” Jeremy dryly replied, heels paused against the stone, their hasted breaths leaving their dimpled lips winded. He dangled the small toy from his fore finger and thumb, mouth curling down in cynical disgust. “This… is not a man. I hear you talking to him at night, Sophie,” a step forward landed him a few inches just before her nose, “Beneath your goose feather, you think me and the others can’t hear you but we can, speaking of how you’re to run away with June, how the others just don’t understand.” his voice dripped lowly as of sap struggling down mangled birch, “You ask to hear his heart, we all hear you Sophie,” his prodding continued, his words weighing thickly, spaced to linger in the dry silence of the autumn wood surrounding them. “Flutter, flutter, I hear you…” he mimicked, oozing false warmth from his tone, “Where is it now Sophie?” Knuckles white, he trapped the toy curled within his palm, lifting it for his ear to cup, eyes wandering off to focus expectantly in the distance. A slow swallow trudged down Sophie’s throat, her cheeks heating wildly of fuchsia, her sorrow drowned eyes meeting with the nut cracker’s. “I hear no heart, because this is a toy. A wooden toy, Sophie.” His palm opened, the nut cracker lying senselessly upon the grounds of it’s fleshy center. “No man. No running.” his words buzzed, “No heart.” His palm extended toward her, and with brief hesitation she met her own with it, delicately taking back the nut cracker into the harbor of her own hold, taking a last glance up as Jeremy, heavily-footed, made his way toward the home. A tear tread along the apple of her cheek, sniffling in a quiet breath of despair. Cradling the nut cracker in the curve of her fingers, her thumb pressed in against it’s dense chest, the pressure of her own heart beat muffling between her skin and it’s own. “Don’t worry,” she crooned, blue eyed opaque sights, “I hear you.”
Why do I never quite understand. Everything just lingers a fucking inch past my finger tips and leaves me in complete chaos, just suspended in confusion. Nothing but numb confusion. I don’t want your clues I don’t want your hints, I need the flat line truth I need it to be told mercilessly, without hesitation and without a second thought. Tear me apart wound my seams, sharpen my edge and heighten the drop, just don’t leave me to suffoacte. I need to be told selfishly. Why can I never get it. Why can I never understand. Why can I never give myself closure even when it’s placed right in the palm of my hands?
I am completely spent of energy. Like it’s all being consumed just to get myself to fall asleep at night. Just to shut my eyes. Everything requires more effort than I can even begin to give. I don’t even have the energy to keep the pain cornered in my chest anymore. My whole body is just evenly pulsing with it, at least nowhere in particular stands out. At least no one part of me hurts more than the other. I don’t know where I’m going. And it’s difficult to believe you’re going anywhere near somewhere with endless fates and possibilities when you can’t feel it ahead of you, all you can do is trust that that somewhere is indeed somewhere, blindly, without any feeling at all, without any guide, without structure and without plans. All spontaneously. All I can do is keep doing whatever it is that I’m doing, for however long it takes, to get to wherever it is I am going.
One couldn’t imagine the chill you’ve trudged through, lonesome, your ankles gnawed by the snow piled along each mile. All the while on your way home to me. Hurried through the front door our limbs couldn’t tangle quickly enough, my palms soothing your cherried cheeks, thumbs hooked within the shadows of your jaw. My mouth would catch the erratic huffs desperation urged from your throat, nipping at my chin, moist and plush lower lips just lightly greeting one another, drag against my touch. Gasps, suddenly. Knit sweater folded amongst itself at my heels, spine arching, slowly arching arching in line aligning with your fingers foreign tip, lingering downward lower hips thigh rush into contact gripped to warmth, cling grasp breathless lust. Let your breath cascade along my chest, the heat the stir we’re wove my lips shivering a murmur along your ear you’re home, you’re here, you’re home, dear but it’s cold, you shudder, it’s cold, you tremble. You’re withered, my love, why’ve you stayed out so long? You promised you’d be gone no longer than an instance. Tongues glide, whisper, sigh, winters come… December sixteenth tastes of your skin.
10:47 16 December 2010
I remember how smoothly you navigated the roads with your hand in mine all the while, and occasionally your other would reach to lye on top of our twine and then it was my turn and we were out of hands. Some nights we’d reach my street and a silence would settle in the cab. Not now. I would watch the light struggling it’s life on my front porch fade into the background, your foot teasing the petal. You’d ask me if I was in a rush, your sunken eyes gloomed while my mind hummed. I’d stare. Time is nothing, our knuckles are pale, curled. It was July 9th. It was then. I live in July.
10:17 12 December 2010
There is a wind stream within the depth of my mind.
Do not rush me, slip along my tongue if you must but exhale thoughtfully,
if you will.
2:08 2 December 2010
Heel and arch sunken into blinding snow, knee bent and lifted slowly… toe dipped into the crisp lake rippling back the couplet of our limbs. A gasp cracks my lips, introduced by your whisper, our gazes drowned before us. How do we look? Your breath trickled against my blushed cheek, I blinked, glancing up as a wintry smile created an edge to my lips. In love.
10:10 28 November 2010
Follow within my sheets
Chest flushed cheeks cherried blushed in lust with fingers still twisted within my damp strands, our bodies willed to the bed willing to rest now, that we’ve had one another. Drooped eye lids and toneless promises murmured from set to set of lips raw and moist, savored flesh where your mouth marked here and there there below beneath, you cover me skin brushed heat silent swallows, your breath will put me to sleep.
1:24 22 November 2010
Your presence populates this dim silent bedroom of mine as I sit against this headboard I watch you roll up your sleeves as you pace towards me, the mattress gives beneath you and I within a gasp to a grunt we were wove and your upper lip curled satisfaction and I am we are burrowed beneath he sheets in awe in faith can you feel my breath? You’d pull them up between our noses and let the edge of that faded blue cotton nestle a wall between us and you’d introduce us with that hum to soothe me off and I sang. Our tones muffled between the fabric strewn against the half moon beneath my lashes and after we exchanged beams you’d shake your head you’d sigh, your body deflates your shoulders flex your eyes absorbing my crescents and you’d ask can’t you feel my breath? At this point you were still and consumed and one such as I could not fathom the lacing being composed intricate keys minors naturals natural we were I did my best always to stray close behind I feel the poppy seeds between my toes click, between your eyes they’d twitch from note slurred to note and your brow furrowed while you shifted eyes to sheet and touch to breath and moments later your lips took gape and you’d whisper Azure. Your fingers would lift each at their own pace delicate thoughtfully step by step and then nose lips chin were exposed and there was my chance to inhale exhale mouths to mouth. Can’t you feel my breath?
1:57 11 November 2010
(don’t pay any mind, this is just to have my writings from my personal in which I no longer use all collected onto this blog here, otherwise I feel in a disaster of disorganization)
I miss you even as you’re laced between my legs, forearm cushioned beneath the bed of my cheek. Skin draped to the tip of my chin. This wooden frame of hushed little comforts will nestle you to me, for the thirty nine nights left of your unforgivable winter are said to be longest. Keep out the chill, please, keep me warm. Keep me warm. I am only asking that you keep me warm.
I can feel the pressure swelling my chest again just when I thought I’d been given the chance to breathe just once lightly, just once if I’m lucky but this whole process this whole pain can interrupt me whenever it’d like to and it’s so fucking wearing. All of the color within my cheeks is drained absent and lost just pooled beneath my eyes my fingers won’t ease everything is tugging and everything is disagreeing. I slouch myself into my bed when I’m finally exhausted enough for splotches and deep breaths to substitute for closed eyelids I finally get the chance to sink into some sort of comfort and you’re there again breathing in my ear you’re there again perched on my headboard you’re there again warming my chilled ankles you’re here doing exactly what you’ve taken away from me and I don’t want you to go but I don’t want you to stay I don’t want to sleep with a withering love in a weathered bed with a sickly mind you’re thick and you’re reluctant. How are you able to manage all of these sly slips here and there just a second too soon for me to notice how do the hours so heavily anticipated turn to dread and a sickening clench and a tense tongue and how, please I am asking how did it turn out that we loved so differently? Because I haven’t the slightest idea. You’ve left me clueless, enraged, distraught. You’ve left me helpless. You’ve left me. Isn’t that enough?